What Comes Next
by Kansas42
Summary: Some hunts come back to haunt you. Or, in this case, break your brother’s heart. Literally. HurtDean, WorriedSam. Spoilers for Faith, Folsom Prison Blues, AHBL II.


A/N: Started this one awhile back, so it's now AU as far as NRFTW. HurtDean, as always. I'm on an especially big HurtDean kick lately.

Summary: Some hunts come back to haunt you. Or, in this case, break your brother's heart. Literally. HurtDean, WorriedSam. Spoilers for Faith, Folsom Prison Blues, AHBL II.

"What Comes Next"

--

I.

Sam breaks the deal in April.

Two months later, this happens:

--

II.

They're checking out a poltergeist in Charleston, a favor to a friend of an old friend of Bobby's. As hunts go, it's pretty low-key; no demon apocalypse strings attached. No demons period, actually, which is just how Sam wants it. They're just starting to ease back into the job; no need to run when you're relearning to crawl.

Sam breaks the deal in April. In May, they take some time off. They travel the country, hang out at bars, and take pictures of the road's crappiest tourist attractions. In essence, they live their life like they always have—except, no monsters involved.

They also get seriously, _seriously_ shit-faced. The last week of May is best left forgotten entirely.

In June, they sober up and swear off alcohol for the rest of their lives. For Sam, this declaration lasts three weeks, for Dean, less than three days. The party is over regardless, though; without ever really sitting down to discuss it, the Winchesters go back to hunting, because it's simply who they are. The reasons that fueled them before are gone—the Yellow-Eyed Demon is dead, Dean's soul is his own—but hunting, the life, has become their life, and Sam has finally come to accept that. Two months after he breaks the deal, Sam figures that things will be just fine, as long as he has Dean. As long as his brother is by his side.

Then they're hunting a poltergeist down in Charleston, and things go all to Hell.

--

III.

Two months after he breaks the deal, Sam dives sideways to avoid being clobbered by the world's ugliest godamn cookie jar. He's used to floating knives and lamps and occasionally even a threatening spatula, but there's something about an ominous floating cookie jar that he just finds vaguely insulting. Death is never dignified; death is never glorious, but to go out by a cerebral edema caused by a tacky piece of porcelain junk bought at the dollar store . . . well, that's just not acceptable, not after the crap that they've been through. Sam dodges to avoid such a ridiculous death, and when he gets up, Dean has stopped laughing long enough to fall to his knees.

Sam's immediate reaction is to tell his jackass of a brother to grow up and move his ass, but he's barely completed the thought before he realizes that something's wrong. The expression on Dean's face is equal parts pain, frustration, and shock, and his hands are pressed tightly to his chest, trembling almost imperceptibly. Sam pushes himself to his feet, confused. "Dean?" he asks.

Dean looks up, opens his mouth, but can't seem to push out words. On certain days, such an event would understandably be considered a gift from God—like last Tuesday, when Dean refused to keep quiet about the disgustingly lurid details of his latest conquest from the bar—but today is not such a day, because Sam can't figure out what's wrong. If a flying frying pan had come and knocked Dean upside the head, Sam would understand. He'd be concerned, of course, but he'd understand; flying frying pans to the head friggin _hurt_. He knows this from experience; he's been attacked by most poltergeist-fueled kitchen appliances (ugly cookie jars notwithstanding). But this—this is different, this is _wrong_ somehow—because Sam had been looking right at Dean, and he knows that nothing attacked him.

Dean hadn't been hit. He should be fine. He shouldn't be going down.

But there he is. On his knees, defenseless, hands hovering just over his heart.

"Dean!" Sam yells again, to no better response than before. Sam tries to make his way over, but that's when the skewers start flying.

Dean tries to stand, fails, tries to stand again, and falls back. He shakes his head twice, coughs a little. "Don't worry," he says, in a voice that makes Sam _very_ worried. "Just finish this bitch, Sam. Go. Go!"

Sam wants to argue, but there's suddenly a butcher's knife a centimeter or two away from his nose. The poltergeist is upping his game, of course, at the most inconvenient moment, and though it burns to leave Dean behind, Sam knows it's the best way to help him. So he dodges the cookery, takes a potted plant to the left shoulder, and dispatches the poltergeist in record fucking time. He might be a little prouder of that, if Dean wasn't still on his knees and going grayer by the second.

"Dean? Dean, what happened, man, come on." Sam's searching with his hands as he talks, looking for a wound even though he _knows_ Dean wasn't hit. "Come on, man, talk to me. Where's it hurt, Dean? Where you hit?"

Dean gives him a shaky smile, about five notches down from his usual mega-watt grin. He seems to be too busy trying to breathe to put too much energy into his standard, "I'm a-okay, Sammy," spiel that he's been trying to sell since birth. "I think," he begins, and then starts to slide to the side, eyes rolling upwards. Sam catches him even as Dean's head lolls backwards into Sam's shoulder. "I think . . . Dr. Evil might've . . . taken my mojo, or something."

And that's not even funny, but Sam can't bitch about it, because then Dean's unconscious in his arms.

--

IV.

Two months after he breaks the deal, Sam hauls his unconscious and barely breathing brother to the hospital, trying to think things like _he's gonna be okay_ and _Dean's strong_ and not think things like _Dean looks dead_. He's barely through the ER doors when the nurses whisk Dean away, leaving Sam standing alone, his arms empty and strangely weightless.

The nurses ask Sam a lot of questions, none of which he can answer, and he sits in the chairs for hours, alternating between various states of numbness and freaked the fuck out-ness. Eventually, he's allowed to see his brother, who has been transferred to a room upstairs on the fourth floor.

Sam enters the room quietly, not wanting to wake Dean up—which isn't really true at all, because if Dean wakes up, that means he's not dead, and he'd give anything in the world to see Dean sitting up, arguing with the doctors and hitting on any nurse that moves. But Sam doesn't have anything to give, and Dean doesn't even stir when Sam takes his hand in his. It's pretty clear that a herd of elephants could stampede through the room without any risk of waking Dean up.

His color is better, though; there's a healthy level of pink in those cheeks, and his breathing's improved enough not to warrant a ventilator. He looks more asleep and less dead than he had six hours ago, and that's enough to ease the pressure tightening deep in Sam's own chest. _You're going to be okay_, he thinks, but he doesn't know that, not really. Because he _had_ gone down and he _had_ looked dead and there hadn't been a reason for _any _of it.

The doctor walks in and it takes everything Sam has not to interrogate the smaller man by slamming him into the walls.

Sam is, on occasion, concerned by the fact that he appears to act more belligerent and irrational (_like Dean_) when Dean himself is hurt—but this isn't one of those times. Dean had looked _dead_. Dean could have _died_. Dean could have _died_, just _two months_ after Sam saved him from the pit, and that isn't fair, dammit, that's just cruel. Sam's not supposed to be scared like this anymore. They're supposed to be okay.

He isn't ready.

The doctor goes through his explanation, and when it becomes readily apparent that Sam is only catching about half of it, he goes through it again—patiently, which is an unusual characteristic in an MD. Sam feels a little unsteady and has to sit down carefully as the doctor explains that Dean has had a very minor heart attack.

_A heart attack . . ._

The word "minor" doesn't register right away, so the doctor makes sure to mention it a few more times for emphasis. Sam's still stuck on the "heart attack" part though—for Godssake, Dean's only 29—surely, he's too young for such a thing to happen . . .

"It is rare," the doctor says, "for patients as young and as athletic as your older brother to have myocardial infarctions. But considering Axel's high cholesterol and obvious heart damage in the past, this event wasn't entirely without precedent.

_Looked dead . . . heart attack . . . heart damage . . . heart damage?_

Sam blinks at the doctor. He fumbles to come up with some kind of cover, some explanation for his obvious confusion. Because, yeah, Dean's heart had been jacked up—one massive heart attacked served up courtesy of 100,000 volts of electricity—but that's all supposed to be better now. He's supposed to be fixed. He's supposed to be okay.

Without explaining the complicated details of reapers or spell work or miracles, Sam tells the doctor that he had thought Dean was better.

"He was," the doctor tells him, "but your heart simply can't go through that kind of damage without leaving something behind." There's a long pause, and then maybe the doctor can tell that Sam's about to burst into tears, because he claps one hand gently on Sam's shoulder. "It's okay," the doctor says, kindly enough. "This was a very, very minor attack, nothing that your brother won't be able to recover from. He'll have to take medication, of course, and there will be some permanent scarring, but with proper treatment and rest, there's no reason that Axel won't live a full and healthy life."

The doctor claps Sam on the shoulder again and then withdraws it, stepping back in the universal sign of _I really have other things to do now_. Sam rubs the tears away from his eyes and nods.

"Okay," he says. "Thanks, doc."

The doctor nods. "No problem," he says. "I'll be back later to speak to your brother, but, in the meantime, try to remind him to be careful with his diet—cholesterol can be tricky—and to get some rest. He needs to learn to listen to his body, not push himself too far, too fast. That kind of thing can be difficult with young men, but it is essential. It's doubtful that this was the first problem that he's had since the inciting incident. Try to watch out for him, Mr. Rose."

Sam nods again, not quite trusting himself to speak, and stares at the door as the doctor leaves through it.

_It's doubtful that this was the first problem . . . obvious heart damage in the past . . . since the inciting incident . . . he looked dead . . . doubtful . . . Dean looked dead . . . that this was the first problem . .. first problem . . . not the first problem . .._

"You knew," Sam says softly to his unconscious brother. "You knew that there was something wrong. You knew, and you didn't say a fucking word."

_Doubtful that this was the first problem . . . Dean looked dead . . . Dean looked DEAD . . ._

Sam closes his eyes for a moment and counts to ten. When that fails, he walks into the bathroom and punches his fist into the wall.

--

V.

Two months after he breaks the deal, Sam throws the biggest bitchfit he's had since Dean, maudlin drunk one night at a bar, told him earnestly that he'd be fine without his older brother, since he'd always been the strongest of the Winchesters anyway.

Sam takes the remote out of Dean's hand and slams it against the table stand next to them. "How long?" he yells.

"Sam—"

"How _long_?" He slams the remote down again; he's always been good at using inanimate objects for dramatic emphasis. "How long have you known, Dean? How long have you known that there was something wrong with your heart?"

Dean sighs. He looks down at his blankets and then back up at Sam, shrugging nonchalantly as if they were talking about the weather. "I didn't know for sure until about a month ago. I guess, I guess I've been having problems with it off and on for about, I don't know, a year?"

"A year? A _year_?"

"Yeah, Sam, a year." Before Sam can say anything, Dean cuts him off with an irritated chuff. "I told you, man, I wasn't sure till about a month ago. I'd get these, I don't flashes? I guess, of pain, and sometimes I'd be a little short of breath or dizzy, but then it would just go away, Sam, sometimes for months, even. And it just didn't seem that big of a deal—don't you make that face at me, Sam, it was never this, never this _big_." He gestures half-heartedly at the hospital room around them. "Honestly? I kind of thought it was that Crossroads Bitch at first, you know, fucking with my mind or something, like, reminding me how much time I had left. I didn't—I just didn't think anything of it, really, till last month."

"After the deal was over," Sam says flatly. "Jesus, Dean. Why the hell didn't you _tell_ me?"

Dean doesn't even bother to answer. He just gives him a flat, slightly exasperated glare.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Fine," he says. "That's just great, Dean. I'd have been _so_ much more protected if I woke up to find you dead."

"Dude, I never—" Dean breaks off and shakes his head. "It wouldn't have gone down like that."

"Yeah? You know that how?"

Dean grins. "Cause I'm Batman," he says.

Sam glares at him.

After a few minutes, Dean's grin fades to dust. "Dude," he says softly. "What do you want from me?"

Sam sinks back into his chair, his anger evaporating into something deeper, more weary. "I want you to be okay," he says quietly. "I thought . . . I thought we were okay."

Dean looks down, then. "I know, Sam. I know."

Dean picks up the remote, shakes it a few times, and starts flipping around the channels. He goes around twice before giving up and leaving it on an old episode of Charmed. Sam raises his eyebrows at him.

"What? That Alyssa Milano chick is _hot_."

Sam shakes his head, smiling. "You're unbelievable."

"Dude. What have I been telling you all these years?"

Sam shakes his head again. His eyes find the ground and he searches it, as if it has some kind of answer. He's just so damn tired all of the time. He's getting really sick of being this tired. After a minute, he hears Dean sigh. "Sammy," he says. "I'm gonna be okay."

Sam glances up at him. "You don't know that," he says.

Dean nods. "Yeah," he says. "I do."

After that, there isn't much left to say.

--

VI.

Two months after he breaks the deal, Sam sneaks fast food into his brother and asks him the question that has been nagging him for two days now. "I don't get it, Dean," he says, absentmindedly munching on a French fry. "I thought the reaper healed your heart. You're not supposed to get a time limit on that, right?"

Dean glances up at him over his chicken sandwich. He had been less than pleased with his white-meat selection. (_Dude, I thought you were getting me FOOD. Where's my burger, man? Where the hell are my extra onions?_) Sam had just leveled a glare at him cool enough to freeze a wendigo. (_Did you even listen to your doctor, man? You need to eat less cholesterol. You don't like it; you can eat the hospital food. I hear their jello is AWESOME._) Dean had bitched and moaned like a little girl, but he ate the chicken sandwich as if he hadn't eaten in days.

Now he takes a quick swig of _Sam's_ Sprite and tosses the sandwich wrapper carelessly over the side of his bed. "Don't think it did," he says, after a burp. "Actually, I don't think this has anything to do with Nebraska."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "Really?" he asks. "A heart attack at the age of 29 and you're thinking, well, that's normal?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "I didn't say it was normal, Sam. I just don't think it has to do with the reaper." He glances away, frowning, and then flicks his eyes back to Sam, a kind of grim resolve etched into his face. "I think this about Green River."

"Green River? The detention center? You mean the vigilante nurse?" Sam frowns, confused. "That doesn't make sense, Dean. I know she was inducing heart attacks, but it's not like she ever touched y--" He trails off as Dean looks away again. _Oh, you sonofabitch_. "Dean. Dean, you said she didn't hurt you."

Dean risks a wary glance back at him. "Technically," he says, "you never asked."

"God_dammit_, Dean!" Sam snaps, pounding his fist into the tray table next to the bed. Dean's uneaten hospital breakfast goes flying and scatters all over the floor. Dean raises his eyebrow at the smattering of lukewarm scrambled eggs and pink yogurt.

"Nice, Sam," Dean says. "Nice."

Sam throws his hands up and walks to the other side of the room in a deeply failing attempt to get some kind of control over his temper. When he realizes it's not happening, he spins around to glare at his brother. "What is _wrong_ with you," he hisses, conscious and completely apathetic to the quickly rising volume of his voice. "Why can't you just say it: Sam, that psycho ghost we're hunting just tried to kill me; Sam, I'm having spasms in my chest; Sam, I think I might be having a heart attack and maybe we should go the hospital before I collapse in your arms and _DIE_! I mean, what the hell is your _problem_, Dean?"

Dean levels a cool gaze at him. "You done?" he asks flatly.

"Not even close," Sam snaps.

"Dude, look, I didn't tell you because I didn't think it was that big of a deal, okay? I felt fine the next day, and later—well, later we had bigger problems to deal with, all right? You dying, me headin downstairs—any of that ringing a bell? I had other stuff to think about. I just—I didn't put two and two together."

Sam just glares at him, entirely unimpressed. He walks back to the chair next to Dean's bedside, collapses into it, and crosses his arms. "So, you figure Nurse Glockner, what? Held on just long enough to cause some kind of permanent damage?"

Dean sighs. "Yeah," he says. "I guess." He glances at Sam and then away again, a clear giveaway that he has something else to tell. Sure enough, Dean rubs one hand over his face and says, "Something else you should know, Sammy. Deacon's dead."

"Deacon? Deacon's _dead_?"

Dean nods, wiping the back of his hand gently over his mouth. "Yeah," he says. "Heart attack. Few months back, I guess. She got him when we were digging up that bitch's grave—all pissed off cause he lets us escape, right? Anyway, Deacon told me later if she'd held on just one second longer . . ." He trails off, looking away again, eyes back down to the yellow and pink mess all over the floor. "Guess it just caught up to him, you know?"

Sam nods. He does know. "And now it's catching up to you," he says flatly.

"_No_. Dammit, Sam, I told you, I'm going to be fine, okay? I'm not going to die on you." Dean levers himself up in bed so that he's learning forward, resting most of his weight on one of the side rails. This isn't going to get me, Sammy. I've got, like, pills to take now and a health regiment or whatever. I'm going to be fine, okay? We're going to be okay."

"You can't know that," Sam snaps, feeling a familiar burn within his eyes. He turns away, rubbing at them viciously—he isn't going to start crying, dammit. That's not going to help anything. But, Jesus—it's like they've been having the same argument for the last two days, hell, maybe even for most of their lives. _Don't worry, Sammy. I'm invincible. No, you're not. No one is._ Sam turns to look back at Dean, trying not to see his own heartbreak reflected in his brother's face. "Don't promise me that," he says, the words tight and painful in his throat. "You can't promise me that, Dean. No one can promise that."

Sam turns away again, facing the window and the world outside of it. "Sam," he hears from behind him. "Sam."

Sam swallows.

"Sam, you look at me, dammit."

Sam turns back to see his brother staring at him earnestly. "Now, you listen to me," Dean says firmly. "You and me, we've been through Hell together. Well, not _literally_ Hell, not yet, anyway, but pretty much everything else. If it's weird and crazy and fucked up beyond any repair, we've been there, man. We've seen it. And Sam, I didn't sell my soul just to lose you now, just like you didn't save me from the pit just to watch me die. You and me, we're gonna get through this, okay? I mean, you gotta believe that, Sammy. I sure as hell didn't go through all this shit just to be taken out by some spook with a hard-on for cons. I'm not gonna die, Sammy. It's not gonna happen."

Sam smiles at him hopelessly. "Everybody dies, Dean," he says.

Dean nods. Then, he says, "Not me, Sammy. Not yet."

--

VII.

Two months after he breaks the deal, Sam pushes Dean's wheelchair out to the parking lot, listening to an all too familiar rant about doctors and hospitals and being perfectly capable of driving his own fucking car. Sam ignores all of this, thanks the doctors and nurses profusely before they leave, picks up all of Dean's various prescriptions, and wheels his brother out to their home.

Dean does everything but make out with the car. "Oh, baby," he says, practically, fondling the damn thing. "I've missed you so much."

"Do you need some privacy or something?" Sam asks him.

Dean flips him off without even glancing up and gets into the passenger side of the car. As soon as Sam gets in, Dean glances over and asks, "So, where we headed?"

"South Dakota."

"South—Sam! I don't need another two weeks of recuperation, dammit! I'm fine now, okay? So let's just go hunt some fugly thing down and save the lives of a few very grateful young blondes."

Sam ignores this. He flips on the radio and stops at a station playing Radiohead's "Karma Police." Dean, being five, acts like he's having a damn seizure. "Saaaaaaaaam. C'mon, man. Seriously."

"Driver picks the music."

"Yeah," Dean says. "But that means you have to actually pick _music_, not some angsty dude caterwauling about the misery of life."

Sam rolls his eyes, although secretly he's impressed that Dean knows what the word 'caterwauling' means. "We're going to South Dakota because Bobby wants to see us, because you _do_ need more time to heal, and so we can figure out how to keep your prescriptions from running out. Bobby's offered to help . . . unless you had a better plan?"

Dean shrugs uncomfortably and looks away, a clear sign that he'd been planning on taking the pills until they were gone and then hoping that Sam forgot all about them. Asshole.

After a few minutes of silence, Dean says, "Sam, this emo crap is killin me here. Do you _want_ me to end up back in the hospital?"

"Pretty sure you promised me that you'd survive," Sam says, and, with a grin, turns the music up louder.

-Fin


End file.
